The screams pierced the silence like shattered glass.
Starr didn't hesitate. She bolted inside Vivian's apartment, heart thundering in her chest. As she shoved the door down which was now slightly open, the sight froze her in place.
Vivian was curled in a corner, her hands clamped tightly over her ears, eyes squeezed shut, trembling violently.
She rocked back and forth, screaming—a sound that was not just fear, but pure mental torment.
"Vivian!" Starr rushed to her, kneeling down, wrapping her arms tightly around her.
*"It's okay, I'm here. You're safe. You're safe…"*
Her voice was low and rhythmic, like a chant—desperate to pull Vivian back from wherever her mind had gone.
The words repeated, over and over.
A soft glow shimmered briefly from Starr's neck—the mark flickering like a pulse. Slowly, the trembling in Vivian's body eased, her screams dying into whimpers.
She looked up at Starr, eyes wide and hollow, then collapsed against her shoulder.
Neither spoke.
The tension in the room lingered like smoke, thick and unmoving. But exhaustion overpowered fear, and soon they both drifted into a shallow, haunted sleep—arms still wrapped around each other.
***
Meanwhile, miles away—
Maxwell stirred in bed, drenched in sweat, trapped in *that dream* again.
He stood alone in a vast stone valley, surrounded by towering rocks carved with ancient, writhing symbols. The air was deathly still. Every time he stepped closer to a rock, the symbols pulsed—alive, watching.
The mark on his hand began to burn—glowing red-hot like seared iron against flesh.
He screamed, trying to pull away, but the rocks *moved*, circling in.
He looked down.
The mark had spread.
Up his wrist.
Across his arm.
Into his chest—like veins of fire carving through him.
He woke in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. The pain in his hand pulsed like a heartbeat, each throb stabbing through his skull. Maxwell sat up, groaning, his throat dry and burning.
Dragging himself out of bed, he staggered toward the kitchen. The floorboards creaked under his feet—louder than usual, like the house itself was awake. He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and gulped it down in desperation. As he shut the fridge door, something caught his eye.
In the corner of the hallway, just beyond the dim kitchen light, a figure stood—tall, crooked, swaying gently. It looked human… but not quite.
Maxwell froze. The bottle slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor. Water splashed across his bare feet as he gasped, choking on what he had just swallowed. The figure didn't move.
With shaking fingers, he reached for the light switch on the wall. His heartbeat roared in his ears as the switch clicked—
Light flooded the hallway.
Nothing.
Just a black nylon bag, caught on the edge of a chair, swaying gently in the breeze from an open window.
Maxwell let out a shaky laugh, but it died quickly.
Because as he bent to pick up the bottle,
*the nylon bag stopped swaying.*
Instantly.
Like it had been watching him too.
Maxwell couldn't sleep again. Ever since the nylon-bag incident, something had shifted. The dreams grew louder, and now… they bled into his waking life.
He stood shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the mark on his hand. It was no longer faint. It had grown deeper—etched into his flesh like a branded curse. And tonight, it *moved.*
Yes. It pulsed.
Like a second heartbeat.
His head throbbed with whispers he couldn't translate—syllables in a tongue that made his ears ring and the bathroom lights flicker. When he blinked, the mirror no longer reflected his face but a shadow standing *behind him*, watching.
He spun around.
Nothing.
But on the fogged glass was a symbol—scratched in from the *inside.*
And he hadn't even taken a shower.
*"It wants something."*
Max didn't know why he said it. The words left his mouth on their own.
He sent a voice note to Starr. "Something is wrong. I think it's trying to speak to me."
She replied quickly:
*"We need to talk. And I think Zee can help."*
Zee was one of the few students who came back from the excavation site… different. He had gone quiet, distant. And tonight, when Max and Starr knocked on his door, he answered with a haunted look—eyes rimmed red like he hadn't slept in days.
"I know why you're here," Zee said, stepping aside. "It's started for you too."
They exchanged uneasy glances before walking in.
Zee's walls were covered in sketches—symbols identical to the ones Max had seen in his dreams. Some were drawn in red ink… or at least they hoped it was ink.
"I didn't draw them," Zee said. "They appear when I wake up."
Max's hand burned. "What does it want?"
Zee hesitated. "Not what. *Who.* It's a soul. An ancient one—bound, cursed, and furious. It clings to us because we broke something at that site. We walked into its resting place. And now…"
He trailed off and pointed to one disturbing sketch on the wall.
It was a drawing of *Vivian.*
Her eyes blacked out. Her mouth sewn shut. Her neck marked just like Max's.
"I think she's next," Zee whispered.